


How to Train Your Warg.

by wanderingidealism



Series: Bombur's Children [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A boy and his dog, A little angst, BUT I"LL SAY THIS RIGHT NOW, Baby Dwarves, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Other, SO SORRY, SOME GORE IN THE BEGINNING, SORRY THERE'S SOME DEAD ANIMALS, THIS ISN'T AN AMERICAN STORY WHERE THE DOG DIES IN THE END, i mean warg, learning experiences, this is fluffy as fuck, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boftur, the quietest of Bombur's children, finds an abandoned warg pup in a cave where its mother and family was brutally slaughtered.<br/>Being a quiet, shy lad, with an affinity toward animals and domestic life, he naturally adopts it.<br/>Watch as a boy and his warg grow together, learn from each other, and discover that just because a creature is one of melkor's spawn, doesn't mean that it can't grow to become a creature of the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boftur's Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/gifts).



> Warning: Dead warg puppies and a dead warg bitch. also poorly thought out writing and plenty of 2 AM binge typing.   
> This is kind of the cheesiest thing I've ever written in my life. 
> 
> also Orcs abuse animals. I think it's almost natural to assume that, given a better condition to grow up in, perhaps one full of love and tenderness, wargs would make excellent companions.   
> Yes I am aware they are the spawn of melkor, and also the possess a great intelligence and are meant to juxtapose the horses of Rohan, but I still firmly believe that no one is born evil.

**_In which, Boftur adopts an abandoned warg pup, despite his family’s opposition. Warnings: Abuse of animals and a foul mouth, also this is the happy ending au._ **

**_Note: I promise that when I typed this into word the formatting was nice and double spaced, and there were paragraph indents. When I uploaded it here is got  messed up. I'm so sorry._ **

 

 

 

            Boftur had always been a quiet child; from the day he was born, he had been the quietest of all the children of the Ur clan, just as his father had been before him. When other dwarrow his age wanted to wrestle or play in the mud, he wanted to draw quietly or read; when his siblings fought, he sought compromises. While other children sought out the mines and forges to observe and watch in their downtime, he sought out the weaver’s guild and the sewing and tailoring guilds to learn the craft. He had a very nurturing heart from a very young age, and even his mother could tell that.

 

            Because of his quiet, nearly silent nature, Boftur was often overlooked by other dwarflings when they went out to play games, leaving the young dwarf on his own. He didn’t mind that at all, in all honesty; he preferred to help Arunn around the house, learning from her how to cook, how to clean, and even sewing lessons, though she wasn’t as skilled as Mr. Dori. Boftur became quite the little homemaker in his childhood, watching his younger sisters when Arunn ran the bakery, helping his mother repair torn clothes and darning socks, and his love of books helped him become a very bright young lad; many adult dwarves were quite fond of the charming young dwarrow who sat at the corner table of the bakery occasionally and held friendly conversations with the patrons of the shop.

 

            Boftur was also very fond of caring for people and animals; he was quite the nurturer of plants as well, to the surprise of many. One of his favorite things to do was take care of his baby brother and sister, Makrun and Bolgur, when his mother could not. It was Boftur who read Vidunn stories at night, for his benefit and hers, when their parents could not, and it was Boftur who helped his mother change diapers and feed the babies. Makrun’s first intelligible name was not the usual, “ama!” or “Ad!” like most babies; indeed, her first syllable beyond baby-sounds was “Bof” as she made grabby hands at her brother who was holding her bottle. Arunn and Bombur didn’t begrudge him that, praising Boftur for how well he handled and cared for children.

 

            Despite his softness, Boftur was also very outgoing… if the thing he wanted to interact with was a younger child or an animal. Arunn could hardly take him to the market without him wandering away to pet the various animals found there. He fed stray cats and dogs whatever he had in his pockets at the time, and at almost any social gathering he gravitated to the nearest animal, and any animal nearby gravitated toward him. (The most notable of these instances was the day diplomats from Dorwinion came to visit and brought along some fearsome looking dogs that growled at anyone who drew too near them, besides their masters. It was quite the shock when, during the large welcoming party, sudden loud growling noises were heard from where the dogs were known to be resting, only to have the party turn and find a little dwarf at the center of the group, rubbing the belly of the biggest and meanest of the dogs.) he was very good with animals and young children, and quite good with adults, but never with anyone his own age.

 

           Boftur’s silent nature, though endearing, worried his parents and uncles greatly however, for if what parent doesn’t worry when their child has few friends his age and remains indoors?

 

           For this reason, Bombur and Arunn found themselves pressuring their boy to go outside, sometimes going so far as to hide the books in the house and to have Binur steal his sewing kit and knitting needles, in order to lure the child out of doors. This was how Boftur found himself outside the city walls one fine, spring morning, the Spring following the Battle of The Five Armies.

 

          It had been raining for nearly a week, and the sky still looked grey and wet, and nearly all of the area of the desolation was covered the sort of slippery type of mud that all mothers dread and that all children one way or another find themselves tracking into the house. Makrun had been fussy all morning, a seasonal cold causing her nose to run and her head to ache, and thus had been throwing a fit to end all fits. Bolgur, seeing his sister throw a fit, decided to throw one as well, screaming from his high chair and throwing whatever was in his reach to the ground. Arunn was nearly at her wits end, and as much as Boftur was usually a great help to her, today he was underfoot at all the wrong moments in his attempts to help his mother. It was after Bolgur flipped his third bowl of porridge right into Vidunn’s hair, causing her to begin crying just as Boftur passed by and slipped in the resulting mess of cold porridge that threw Arunn over the edge. She silently left her messy kitchen and called her older sons to the foot of the stairs.

 

“I need you to get Boftur and Vidunn out of the house for a while,” she said frustrated, “Makrunn and Bolgur need to go down for their naps, and as much as I love their help, they’re not making it any easier. I don’t care where you take them, just be safe and be careful. And be back before dark!”

“No problem Amad, we’ll be all right,” Borobur promised as Binur looked positively gleeful at the permission to finally leave the house for the first time in days. He instantly grabbed his younger brother’s sewing kit and hastily shoved it into his satchel, before pulling on a pair of heavy boots.

“Hey Boftur! I’m borrowing your sewing kit!” Binur cried from the doorway as he all but flew out of it, making a beeline for the streets as Borobur followed, a grumbling Vidunn trudging behind him.

“Hey wait! You don’t know how to use it!” Boftur cried, his eyes lighting up in fear, “You’ll lose all my needles and use up my thread!” the young dwarf raced after his elf brother, barely pausing to pull on boots and a jacket. He shoved a handkerchief- one embroidered neatly by his uncle’s friend, Bilbo- and rushed out the door. Arunn breathed a sigh of relief and went to go calm down and clean up the still crying babies in the kitchen. She hoped her other children wouldn’t get themselves into too much trouble.

 

***

 

 

By the time Boftur figured out where his siblings were headed, it was nearly one in the afternoon. They had all headed to the scene of the battlefield, long since cleared of dead bodies and blood leftover after the battle, and now one of the most favorite places of the children of Dale and Erebor to hang out in. (it was the one place the adults of both kingdoms would rather their children not play, but sighed resignedly and allowed, knowing the children would go even if prohibited.)

His brothers had engaged in a friendly wrestling match with Bain, son of Bard, and another human boy, and Vidunn shouted encouragement and insults from the sides while Tilda laughed along beside her. Boftur could see that even Fili and Kili had come outside, probably to avoid their new princely duties, and were contributing to the wrestling match by shouting out suggestions for moves and correcting the participants’ stances whenever they could. Boftur sighed at the sight of the large crowd around his brothers, and trudged over to find Binur’s pack.

 

“Finally decided to join us, Boftur?” Vidunn called teasingly, turning to face her big brother with a smug grin, “I can wrestle you if you want. Me an’ Tilda can take you!”

            “I just want my sewing kit,” Boftur said, his soft voice barely being heard over the sound of the wrestling, “I don’t like to wrestle, Vidunn you know that.”

“Why not?!” Vidunn demanded, pouting, “You never want to do anything fun! You’re always so quiet and boring. Why won’t you play more like Borobur or Binur?”

 

It was an old argument, one that usually ended in the two of them fighting, and Boftur hated it. He didn’t understand what was so wrong about him liking quiet activities as opposed to physical ones, nor did he understand why other children seemed to find him weird for not wanting to play like they did; He certainly would join in usually if invited, but he was simply no good at playing dwarves versus orcs, or warriors, or even wrestling, and found them to be very unappealing, so why would he go out of his way to participate in them?

 

“I just don’t like to play those kinds of games, Vidunn,” he sighed, as he usually did when she breached the topic, “just like how you don’t like sitting still when Amad tries to show you how to sew.”

“Sewing’s boring,” Vidunn said, snappishly, “You’re not gonna make any friends if you keep playing boring games.”

 

And there she went and brought it up again; the sorest subject in the household. Boftur, despite his love for his family and they for him, often found himself lonely when his siblings weren’t around to play. He had very few friends, not only because of his tendency to hang around adults, but also because of his incredible shyness. Every time Boftur tried to reach out to a dwarrow his age, his anxiety stopped him dead in his tracks; he was caught up on his fear that the dwarfling in question would find him boring, would laugh at his distaste for weapons and violence, or would simply be spiteful and mean. That Vidunn would rub this fear in his face was very hurtful to the young dwarf, and he flinched instinctively. His younger sister didn’t seem to notice, and continued her argument.

 

“We’re all worried anyway, Boftur, You never want to play with us. You’re always takin’ care of the babies. You’re just a little kid! Stop pretendin’ to be a grown up!” Vidunn fumed, her grumpiness from earlier returning.

 

Boftur ignored her and walked away, knowing better to shoot back an argument, as it would only egg Vidunn on more. He gave up on finding his sewing kit, a little hurt at his sister’s words, and just wishing to be alone at the moment. He walked toward the craggy rocks and overhangs that lay at the foot of the mountain and were surrounded by rubble from the battle, aiming to hid himself among the large, stone blocks that had once been part of erebor’s great gates; no one would care to look for him there, not expecting him to hang around somewhere so dangerous. He wiped his eyes furiously, angry with Vidunn for her mean words, even if he knew there was some truth to them; why should he have to change himself in order to make people like him? He scoffed angrily, kicking a rock and not really paying attention to where it was going.

 

He heard a small, pathetic squeak as the rock made impact with something fleshy, just out of his sight. Boftur paused and looked up warily, hoping he didn’t disturb anything dangerous, but at the same time wondering what he possibly could have hit. The object was hidden in the shadows just within two slabs of rock that were leaning against the side of the mountain, forming a small cave. Boftur paused hesitantly, wondering if he should go get help, when he heard the thing whimper pathetically. Whatever the creature was it was young, far too young to be on its own, and as nothing had attacked Boftur thus far, even being so close to the lair of the odd whimpering noises, he had to assume that whatever it was, was alone.

 

Boftur hesitated for a second, wondering if he should go get Binur or Borobur, or even one of the princes, just in case, but the creature squeaked again, sadly, as if it were crying for someone or something, and Boftur could not resist its cries anymore, his kind heart roaring for him to help the creature. He hurried toward the entrance of the makeshift cave.

 

As he drew nearer to the source of the whining, Boftur wrinkled his nose in disgust; there was a rotting smell wafting from the cave, like congealing blood and decomposing flesh. Flies swarmed heavily around the cave’s entrance, and Boftur couldn’t help but notice the torn ground and discarded and broken weapons strewn about the small clearing of rocks. He grew worried then, wondering if he should run the other way, but the creature’s cried for help drove him on. He finally reached the cave’s mouth and with a deep breath, he peered inside.

 

He found there a large, recently killed creature, her hair matted with dried blood, and her sharp, white teeth bared in a painful grimace. Her stomach was swollen and flies buzzed disjointedly around her body, where many bloody holes had been torn into the creature’s flesh. A large spear, a very similar spear to those the guards of Dale had taken to using, was sticking from the monster’s side, though the broken shaft heads nearby it indicated it had taken far more than one shot to lay the beast low.

 

Boftur paused, his face paling, as he took in the sight before him. This was no ordinary creature for certain; in fact, the dead beast before him was a warg, a huge, dead warg, the very same beasts the orcs would mount and ride into battle and on their hunts. It was the very same intelligent creatures that nearly killed his father and his father’s friends on their quest to reclaim the mountain, though this individual was quite dead. Boftur reared back in horror, fighting back the urge to vomit at the sight of such a gruesome kill.

 

But then he heard the squeaking noise again. It was the same mournful, keening noise a dog would make when distressed, and it was coming from within the cave. It was a creature in need and Boftur would not leave it to die, no matter how scared he was. The young dwarf carefully picked his way around the corpse of the dead warg, and looked around the small, dark enclosure.

 

He found himself faced with a litter of dead warg welps, all of them with necks snapped or throats slit. Some even had their skulls bashed in. It was a fate not even the vilest of creatures deserved, and it was a freshly done deed. Boftur felt tears well up in his eyes and he choked back a sob as he examined the carnage. He knew grown wargs were evil and cruel, but surely no creature started that way? Surely, if given the chance and the right upbringing, the welps would have grown into kinder beings than their forebears who were raised by orcs to kill and to hate? Boftur wiped his eyes again and sniffed; he had to find the source of the whining.

 

He looked toward the body of the mother, and noticed a small, shivering form nudging the corpse with its foot. It was the runt of this liter, its tiny paws were soaked with drying blood and rain, and its eyes shone a bright blue. It nudged its mother’s corpse again, squeaking pitifully as she gave no motion to indicate life. The baby was all alone, its brothers and sisters dead around it, and with no one to care for it. It nudged its mother again, squeaking and seeming to cry for her to wake, and even Boftur could tell that the little monster was hurt and scared and sad. It was alone in this world, in a place that would kill him without a second thought, and it had everything it loved taken from it violently. Boftur felt tears roll down his face and he went to the whelp’s side, slowly and carefully, as to let the warg know that he would not bring it harm. He prayed the whelp wouldn’t turn and attack him.

 

“H-hey there little one,” He said softly, announcing his presence to the simpering pup, who turned to face the new voice behind him. The whelp’s hackled were raised, but it was too weak to attempt an attack. It growled (read: squeaked) menacingly at the intruder, hoping they’d go away, but it was useless.

“I won’t hurt you,” Boftur said again, settling himself on the floor carefully and staying still in hopes that the little warg would not take him for a threat. He kept his breathing even and his posture relaxed and as harmless as he possibly could. The little warg, still growling at him, eyed him suspiciously and sniffed the air, drawing closer to the young dwarrow as he did so. Boftur regretted not bringing along some food or water; the whelp looked famished, and it might have raised trust between them.

 

The warg whelp finally brushed its nose against Boftur’s exposed hand, nudging it with the dry organ pitifully with a sorrowful moan.

            “I know,” boftur said sadly, “You’re amad is dead and so is your family,” the little dwarrow looked sadly at the mutilated corpses around the makeshift cave, “I’m so sorry little warg.”

 

The warg whelp whined again, nuzzling the dwarrow’s hand, and Boftur, hesitantly, for it was indeed a warg and wargs are clever, mischievous creatures, gently began to pet the whining pup. He wondered what he should do with the baby, knowing that to leave it be would be to leave it to its death, but to take it into the city would make may people angry, including his family who had fought a great big battle against the wargs and orcs already. Surely the whelp currently nudging his hand would one day grow to be big and scary like its mother, but would the warg pup truly be evil?

 

From what Boftur had heard, wargs were bred to be killers; they were taken from their mothers as soon as they were able to eat solid food and trained by orcs to hate the world. He had heard rumors that wargs were toughened by the cruelty of the orcs’s whips and iron; any creature raised in such an environment would grow to be wicked and hateful. Boftur though harder on the subject, all the while continuing to sooth and pet the pup before him gently.

 

 _He is on his own in this world,_ Boftur thought sadly, _his amad is dead and there’s no one to care for him. I can’t just let him die! What would Amad think?!_ Boftur’s parents had taken in Borobur out of sheer kindness, and Binur too, when Bombur had found him starved and nearly beaten by dwarven mercenaries; his parents had always raised him never to judge a book by its cover and to help people out whenever he could because it was the right thing to do. If he left the baby warg out to die on its own, then he’d be letting down his mother and father, and everything they stood for. Besides, if he showed the warg kindness and love, perhaps the little beasty would grow to be good.

 

Boftur’s decision was very clear then, and with gentle hands he scooped the warg pup into his arms and wrapped him in his rain cloak gently, to keep the shivering warg warm.

 

 

“I’m gonna protect you,” he swore, “You’re gonna be safe,” and with that, the young dwarrow walked out of the gore-filled cave and into the drizzly gray afternoon.


	2. Incidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boftur trains his warg.  
> and I shit on Dwarven Nobility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I'm going to Italy for 6 weeks tomorrow.  
> So I wrote this months ago, and didn't edit anything and am posting it now even though I hate the chapter.   
> Because I procrastinated. because I'm LAZY   
> anyway possible triggers:  
> mentions of animal slaughter  
> children giving lip.  
> Children considering causing a scene to get out of formal occasions.   
> also OOC Kili. He's kind of a dick in this chapter. Just consider this; He went though a massive battle where a shit ton of orcs and presumably wargs killed many dwarves, elves, and humans. He probably doesn't trust them. at all. period.   
> btw this is a happy ending au

****

        Boftur knew he could not keep the warg pup inside the house; one of his siblings would find it, and it would be too enclosed and unfit for a baby warg to run around and grow in. So he decided to find a safe, warm place for the pup to hide. On top of this he needed a place near enough to his house that he could easily slip away for long enough to feed and care for his warg. A steady food supply would also be necessary as well.

 

He considered at first the mushroom gardens mr. Bilbo favored, which were secluded inside the mountains in a great cavern of glowing crystals, but then realized that Mr. Bilbo and others would find the warg almost immediately. Plus the caverns were far too deep in the mountains and a creature of the surface would never feel comfortable there, no matter how much people claimed the children of Melkor loved the dark and secluded spaces of the world. So instead of heading down that way, Boftur headed first to his house where he knew his amad was busy, in order to get food and supplies.

 

Boftur managed to sneak away several bottles of milk, some dried meat, and a whole bone from supper the previous night while Amad’s back was turned, and he snuck away into the afternoon with his new friend. Boftur decided to raise the warg in the toolshed in their back yard until he- the warg was indeed male- was too large to fit. He’d have to rise early in the day to sneak the warg out before uncle Bofur and cousin Bifur woke up, and then sneak out at night to let him back in, but he was confident he could handle it. As for the hours he’d be spending at lessons, he figured it would be safe to let the baby run around an enclosed area outside the mountain. One that he would have to build himself. He would have to be absent for much of the day after lessons were over, in order to care for his new friend; what if the baby warg needed more attention than Boftur could give?

 

It was this that gave him pause; how would he find excuses for his absences in the house? He didn’t really have friends that he played with often, and amad would surely be suspicious if suddenly her quietest and most helpful child was no longer around the house to aid her. On top of this he didn’t know how to build an enclosure for a warg, nor how to care for one adequately. Wargs ate meat, wargs hunted, and wargs were violent creatures, that much he knew, but what kinds of meat did they eat beyond the meat of a dwarf or elf or human? Boftur realized he would need more help with this project than he thought. There was no way he could do this on his own. He was lost in these thoughts when a cheerful voice suddenly interrupted his worry.

 

“What are ye’ holding there, lad?” came the uplifting voice of his uncle. Boftur froze, his eyes widened and panicked, and the little warg gave a squeak.

 

“Uh… nothing Uncle Bofur!” Boftur said quickly, attempting to stuff the little warg closer to his chest where he’d be hidden, “My jacket got all wet and gross when I tried catching up to Binur and Vidunn. They took my sewing stuff again.”

 

“Ah, I see,” bofur said suspiciously, eyeing his nephew as he drew near, “And that would be why the bundle is squirming then?”

 

Boftur looked down and to his horror he realized Bofur was correct; the warg pup was trying to squirm his way out of Boftur’s safe hold, presumably to hide somewhere. Boftur tried to make a run for it, but Bofur placed his hand on the young boy’s shoulder, and gently pulled back the fabric covering the shivering warg pup.

 

“ _Mahal,”_ Bofur breathed, rearing back in fear, “You put that animal down this second Boftur!” the older dwarf grabbed for a knife and was only stopped by Boftur’s hand and frantic gasp.

 

“No don’t! He’s just a baby! He won’t harm anyone!” the little dwarf cried, his eyes wide and watery. Bofur paused, an raised an eyebrow.

 

“You do know what that _thing_ is, don’t ye lad?” he questioned, moving to pry the pup away from his young nephew’s arms, “tis a warg! They’re monstrous beasts. Even the little ones.”

 

“Only ‘cause they’re raised by orcs!” Boftur defended, moving away from his uncle, “He’s only a baby. His amad was killed right in front of him, and so was his whole family. He’s the only one left. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him,” The child finished sadly, tears running down his face. Bofur couldn’t help but feel bad. His nephew only wanted to help, and besides, the warg hadn’t harmed the boy yet.

 

“It’ll grow bigger, Bof,” Bofur warned, “they ain’t so nice when they’re grown.”

 

“But I’ll teach him to know better!” boftur protested, “wargs are only bad ‘cause no one’s around to teach them not to be. If I show him kindness maybe he’ll grow up to be a good warg, not like the ones that hurt you an’ Uncle Bifur and Mr. Bilbo and Adad.”

 

Bofur paused for a moment, considering his nephew’s words. On the one hand, the warg could pose a danger to the community. It could hurt his nephew and his family, and it was a massive risk to everyone he was close to. On the other hand, Boftur could be correct about raising the warg to be a good animal…. It was a risky option but one that could prove promising. Besides, the child looked on the verge of crying, and the warg was a pitifully small one.

 

“All right Boftur,” Bofur conceded, “I won’t tell anyone and I won’t kill it-

 

“Him,” The boy corrected, “It’s a male.”

 

“Fine, him. But ye must promise me to be careful with the beast. He’s a baby now but he’ll get bigger. If he ends up being vicious like it’s Ma, I’ll have to kill him. You understand that, right?”

 

“Aye, Uncle,” Boftur nodded, though he frowned, “I understand but I need help. I don’t have a place to keep him.”

 

“Well, until he gets too big, you can hide him in me tool shed,” Bofur suggested, “In the meantime I’ll help you scout out a safe place, out of the eye of the public, for your little whelp to run about in.”

 

“Really?! Thank you so much uncle!” Boftur beamed, the little warg in his arms letting out a squeak.

Bofur sighed, wondering still if he was doing the right thing, “right then. Let’s go get him home.”

 

* * *

 

***

 

 

Boftur named the warg Benur, deciding that the names like “fang” or “Killer” his uncle suggested would encourage violence. He and Bofur washed the dried blood and mud from the whelp’s fur and found that not only was the fur much lighter than expected, but indeed was as white as the warg Azog had ridden into battle. That almost sent Bofur right to the guards in shock, but he was stopped by Boftur’s pleading once again.

 

“He’s not going to be like his adad!” Boftur whined, “I’m going to raise him better than any of those orc masters ever would! You promised to give him a chance!”

 

“Fine lad, I’m just worried,’ Bofur sighed, “You never had to run from its adad, nor face it in battle.”

 

“don’t judge a book by its cover,” Boftur shot back, “that’s what mr. Ori says. And don’t judge a person by their bloodline. Mr. Legolas isn’t all that mean once you talk to him, and his adad kept you all locked up!”

 

“That’s way different!” Bofur protested, and Benur whimpered at him, “Elves aren’t inclined towards slaughter!”

 

“Well neither is Benur! He’s just a baby. He doesn’t know any better, and all the wargs that you fought were bred for killin’ things,” Boftur said sternly, “He’s gonna be a good warg when he gets big. You’ll see.”

 

“Whatever ye say, lad,” Bofur sighed, as the two of them continued to clean the warg.

 

* * *

 

***

 

 

After nearly two weeks of being spoiled with fresh milk and warm baths, the little warg was far more plump and healthy than he had been when Boftur found him. Benur would perk up whenever he smelled Boftur approaching the tool shed that was his hideout, and happily greeted the boy with licks to the face and nuzzles with his snout. The gentility the little warg treated Boftur with threw Bofur off entirely, the older dwarf having never seen a friendly warg in his life. Bofur began to slowly, reluctantly believe Boftur was correct in his belief that raising the little warg with kindness would create a happier being.

 

Boftur himself spent nearly all of his free time caring for the warg pup, devising fun games to play with his new friend, showering the furry little thing with cuddles and new toys. He would take long walks with Benur outside the mountain and hidden from view, teaching him as much as he could about the mountain and its terrain, and helping the warg practice its agility. He spent hours developing games for Benur to play when he grew older that would hone his senses and help build hunting skills, but would also help the warg to become a well-mannered beast as much as he could.

 

The warg in turn seemed to accept Boftur as a surrogate mother, and followed the lad near everywhere when they played, though he seemed to know not to follow Boftur back into the house, or to lessons, or beyond the toolshed at night or the enclosure during the day. The warg pup brought about a great change in Boftur, one noticed by many; he was more outgoing, less quiet, and seemed to be more eager to travel outside than before.

 

In fact, his newfound love of the outdoors found the child reluctant at best to come home in the evenings. It threw Arunn and Bombur entirely, unused to having to remind their boy that he did indeed have a curfew, and that breaking said curfew would get him in trouble. On top of this their usually tidy and clean son would return home coated from head to toe in mud and grime, with all manner of leaves and dirt sticking from his hair. His clothes, where once he would be so careful not to rip or dirty, were often torn in places and heavily stained when he came home. However Boftur was just as quiet about these new habits as he was about the old. When asked by Bombur how his day was, he would reply with one-word sentences and then ask if they had any extra meat. Arunn’s inquiries about if he had made any new friends were also met with one word replies (usually, “no” or any variation of the word) and a request for permission to go outside after dinner. These new changes made Arunn and Bombur happy, but quite worried at the same time; just what was their son doing that turned him from a homebody into a wanderer?

 

Boftur of course kept silent, even when his siblings interrogated him. He couldn’t let them find out, knowing that Borobur and Binur would tell Mr. Dwalin and the head of the guards would kill his newfound friend. Vidunn, the little tattle-tale would tell their mother and not only would she go off and kill Benur on her own, but he’d be in even more trouble than he would be with Mr. Dwalin. He felt none of them would ever understand the bond between the warg pup and himself. Boftur decided to keep Benur a secret between himself and his uncle Bofur, knowing that the toymaker would keep his silence. Boftur continued to sneak out of the mountain every day whenever he had time to play with the one creature in all of Arda he felt understood him.

 

(Benur didn’t laugh at him when he pulled out his sewing kit or the miniature loom uncle Bifur had given him to weave scarves with; he merely settled himself at the young dwarrow’s feet, enjoying the companionable silence and occasional belly rub)

 

Bofur, for his part, found the two near inseparable, save for when Boftur had lessons or chores and had to be inside. He did notice that Boftur seemed much happier now that he had this new friend to care for and who cared for him back; indeed, the young dwarf was more cheerful and open around his uncle whenever the two were with the warg pup. Bofur wondered how he and his brother and sister-in-law could be so blind as to miss how lonely and shy Boftur truly was. Bofur felt incredibly guilty that it took himself so long to realize this fact, which was partially why he allowed the child to care for the warg pup, rather than turning the thing in or killing it himself. He still had his reservations, but he couldn’t help but feel relief that his nephew had finally found a friend.

* * *

 

 

***

 

 

Weeks passed by and Benur grew bigger. So large in fact that Bofur and Boftur had to smuggle him out of the city one night and into the enclosure the two had built. Benur had by this point been weaned entirely off of milk and had been moved onto solid foods. Boftur wondered whether he should start training the warg for hunting- a skill he knew nothing about.

 

It was also evident that the warg was incredibly intelligent- nearly as intelligent as the Eagles of Manwe that saved his uncles and father on their quest, for all that Benur couldn’t speak.  The warg knew what he wanted and how to communicate his desires with the dwarfling perfectly, and often the two seemed to hold each other’s gaze as if in silent conversation. The warg would react to silent commands given by Boftur’s gestues, sometimes even motions of the dwarrow’s eyes, just as a hunting dog would. The warg had managed to figure three or four ways out of his enclosure, and Bofur would often notice him stalk Boftur back to the gates of Erebor, ensuring that his dwarrow friends got back into the city safely.

 

The warg seemed able to comprehend the words Boftur spoke in ways that made Bofur uneasy; no animal as vicious as a warg should possess such abilities, the older dwarrow reasoned. The intelligence held in the ice blue eyes of the white warg mortified him, though Boftur found it pleasing. He would often, when they tired of running around and climbing, pause and tell stories to Benur, grand tales of heroism, many of which the boy made up on his own, and the warg would listen, often letting off growls and purrs to show his opinions on the story. It bothered Bofur to no end that the warg was able to form opinions to this degree; noneof the animals he had ever interacted with beyond the Eagles of Manwe were this intelligent. There were times that he felt, when Benur pinned him with his blue, blue eyes, that the creature was searching his very soul. It was unnerving, but he kept silent on the matter; his nephew was thouroughly enamored with the beast, and the beast with the boy, and even Bofur, though wary about Benur, found the warg tolerable as opposed to threatening after spending months helping to care for him.

 

(It made his nephew happy, and seeing his normally reticent and shy nephew, who never made friends easily if at all, finally eager to talk and play made the risk worth whatever punishment may come.)

            For a while it seemed that everything would be fine. The warg was kept a close secret between uncle and nephew, the child was happier, and Benur was learning to be a caring, if over excitable member of society. Benur taught Boftur how to become more engaging and outgoing in ways his siblings and parents could not, and Boftur taught Benur how to be gentle and loving, a feat none thought possible to do with a creature like a warg. It was a peaceful arrangement for a while.

 

This peace, like all periods of peace in Arda, could not last.

 

* * *

 

***

 

Boftur was sitting stuffily in his nicest clothes as the reception feast for the visiting nobles from afar dragged on well past the usual time. Because of his father, uncle, and older cousin’s standing in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, the Ur clan in its entirety were required to attend these functions, in order to present a united front to visiting nobles and to show how King Thorin valued his companions. The only exceptions to the rules seemed to be Bolgur and Makrunn, due to their ages, and occasionally Vidunn, who only attended some of the functions, much to her chagrin. She was currently glaring at the little dwarf princess seated across from her, who was glaring at Binur while the tall elf was not looking. Vidunn would not stand for anyone, not even Erebor’s princes, mocking her brothers. (sometimes she would not even tolerate mocking in jest!)  Unfortunate “accidents” often occurred when anyone did insult any of her brothers, and these accidents were often swift, messy, and occasionally painful. Lady Dis found the child an eager scholar in the art of dishing out backhanded compliments and polite, clever insults and barbs. She taught the little girl with glee how to handle insults without starting a diplomatic incident.

 

 

The little ginger was currently eyeing her spoon thoughtfully, mischief clearly running through her head as the daughter of the visiting continued to glare at Binur. Kili, seated next to Vidunn on her left kept casually sliding potential bits of ammunition to her, as temptation to start something while Balin eyed them warningly from the other end of the table, his eyes missing nothing despite his focus being on the dwarves conversing with the king. Binur himself was eyeing any way of escape, uncomfortable with the glaring and odd stares of the visiting dwarves, and Borobur, who normally was staid, stoic, and steady during these events, was beginning to grow testy as some of the nobles talking to their father and the others continued to shoot mild jabs at his tall brother in the conversation.

 

Boftur let out another sigh, disappointed that these dwarves didn’t at least bring any animals with them- not even any indigenous animals from the land they hailed from- and were just as racist and mean- presumptuous, as Mr. Ori called them- as all the other visitors usually were. It was even grating on King Thorin’s nerves, as he had clearly adopted his resting “meanie face” as Fili called it, the one he reserved for people who were taking up far too much of his time with useless and trivial problems. Even Uncle Bofur, who normally was cheerful, if a bit crude in his manners, looked stiff and visibly annoyed, as the dwarves kept shooting Mr. Bilbo underhanded comments and sour looks. This fact alone had raised the hackles of the rest of the company, and even Boftur could tell that negotiations would be interesting for these visitors, if not very short and very violent.  As of right now however, the feast was slow, the music terrible, the nobles uninteresting, and the mood soured by the tension created between the rude nobility and the increasingly annoyed and angered Company.

 

Boftur was just contemplating falling asleep on his plate out of sheer boredom when he caught snippits of the conversation Dwalin, Thorin, Balin, and the head of the visiting dwarves’ party were having that made him stop cold.

 

“I was wondering, your majesty, if perhaps you were having trouble with orcs lately,” the leader said, his voice as slick and gilded as a silver-tongued snake, “Not that I doubt the security of your walls and your army, of course, especially with the assistance of Dale’s own forces, but it seems that your lands are still teeming with scum.” No one missed the dwarf’s less-than-subtle eye flicker towards Binur, who slumped further down in his chair.

 

“I admit that the lands around Erebor have been plagued with wild, roving bands of Orcs left over from the Battle,” The king admitted, grudgingly, “But the combined guard forces as well as assistance from Mirkwood’s own army and my cousin Dain’s army, have been working near endlessly to handle this problem, going so far as to defend caravans from as far away as Esgaroth until they reach the safety of Erebor or Dale. We’re pressed for men, but between our three kingdoms we have a large enough force to keep our lands safe from anything that may try to attack while both Dale and Erebor undergo reconstruction,” The king said darkly, not even attempting to sound civil, “just what are you getting at?” the king had clearly lost all patience with this man.

 

“It’s only that my scouts encountered a lone warg today, not far from the city gates,” The lord replied, tersely, but politely, his slick voice icy, “we killed it swiftly, but it was not the first we encountered on our way to the mountain and I was concerned about the safety hazards the wild bands of orcs you’ve mentioned would create for any potential trade-

 

Boftur didn’t wait to hear the rest. He stood up quickly, so fast his chair, despite his small size and its great weight, nearly knocked over and without a second glance back at how much disturbance he created, he rushed out of the large dining hall with a pale face and dread in his heart.

 

_Benur’s dead. Benur’s been killed. My best friend has been killed._ Boftur tore from the dining hall, ignoring shouts for him to stop, and rushed through the hallways with reckless disregard for who he bumped into, not even bothering to apologize. Benur could be dying or dead outside the gates of the city; visions of the white warg with gentle, but piercing eyes laying dead in the mud with broken arrow and spear shafts sticking out of his corpse just like they did with the warg’s mother taunted Boftur’s mind as he fled. He couldn’t stop seeing the dark memories of the gore-covered cave, where the bodies of warg pups littered the ground beside their mother, their tiny heads bashed in and their throats slit open dance in front of his eyes as his feet guided him to where he needed to go.

 

Desperation licked at Boftur’s heels as he tore through the market as vendors shouted greetings to the young dwarf, or shouted at him to slow down his pace. Dwarf ladies scolded him as he flew by for being so rude, and he continued to ignore the cries calling for him to stop. He would not let his warg die alone, and he would not rest until he was certain his friend was alive. Benur was the only one that cared enough to listen when he talked; _he would not believe him dead until he saw it with his own eyes._ He never realized how close he was to the gates until one of the guards stopped him.

 

“Slow down, son! No need to rush,” He said, laying armored hands on his tiny shoulders, “Besides, it’s night. I’m not to let young ones out at night without a guardian with them at least.”

 

“Please! I need to get out!” Boftur demanded, begging desperately, “My friend is in danger and if I don’t go now he could die!”

 

“I’m sure your friend is fine lad,” another guard said, walking toward the two, “ ‘sides, it’s too late for anyone to be outside. A storm’s raging out there, and the plains are too wet to walk through and the mountain rocks are far too dangerous to climb at this time of night. We’ve had no reports of any travelers either.”

 

“Please let me through! I- I need to get out of the city,” Boftur begged, nearly in tears. The gate was opened just enough that he could slip through it if he could get away from the guard holding him back by the shoulders. If he could just shake him off…

 

“Boftur? What in blue blazes are you doing out here?” came the familiar drawl of the company’s most sly member. Boftur turned around desperately to find Nori, his russet hair done up in its usual spikes, gazing curiously at him, “Aren’t you supposed to be at a feast?”

 

“Found ‘im trying to get outside, master Nori,” the first guard said, taking his hands off of Boftur’s shoulders to address Erebor’s spymaster, “I trust you can take him back where he belongs?”

 

“Of course,” Nori nodded, reaching to grab Boftur by the hand. However, before the dwarf could grab him, Boftur was off, tearing through the two gatekeepers and out of the door before anyone, even the spy could blink. In a flash, Boftur vanished into the bitter, rainy night, the pouring rain and howling winds swallowing him in darkness before the three dwarves could catch him.

 

* * *

 

***

 

Boftur raced down the path toward Dale and slipped down the wet stone, nearly falling off of the ramp and to the harsh ravine below. He stood up again and continued to run raggedly, taking a sharp right and heading toward the rocky rubble outcropping he and his uncle had set up on the left side of the mountain by a cave resting at its base. He slipped and fell in the mud several times, scraping his knees and hands until they were bloodied and dirtied, his tears mixing with the mud and rain on his face, but the child would not stop. His friend was in danger or dead, and he could not stop.

 

He staggered, his nice clothes weighed down by rainwater and mud, and made his way slowly and uneasily toward the enclosure that served as Benur’s safehaven. Trembling, he climbed the short distance over the rubble that surrounded and protected the enclosure from sight, slipping down the rocks and landing painfully twice before he made it over. He pushed open the gate of the enclosure and rushed to the large shack that served as Benur’s doghouse slowly, dreading what he may find inside.

 

Benur barked happily, but worriedly once he saw Boftur’s condition, and the warg rushed to the faltering dwarf’s side, brushing against the soaked through child comfortingly, while trying to get him inside the house to cuddle. Boftur fell to the ground in relief and wrapped his small arms around Benur tightly, curling around the warg as closely as he could (Benur was as big as he was now) and the dwarf sobbed into Benur’s fur in relief.

 

“I-I thought they had killed you!” The child cried, “I was so worried, I promised to protect you and then a bunch of mean dwarves came and said they killed a warg. I thought it was you, and, and, I’m so h-happy you’re alive, Benur!” Boftur wailed, clutching his warg close to him and burying his face into the soft fur as he broke into relieved sobs. He continued to stammer apologies as he cuddled Benur, his tears soakingthe warg’s white fur. Benur nuzzled his brother and licked him, keeping him close and warm in an attempt to assure the dwarf that he was indeed all right, and to keep him protected. The two stayed together like that for what seemed like hours, until Boftur’s choking sobs turned into hiccups and eventually ceased. It was only then that Boftur realized how sore and how hurt his hands and knees and ankle were, and what exactly he had done to get here.

 

“Oh boy,” he sighed, “I’m in so much trouble.”

 

“You’re damn right you are,” commeted a voice behind him. Both warg and dwarf wheeled around as the figured stepped into the hut, lantern burning brightly in hand. It was none other than Kili, prince under the mountain, his sword drawn and an angry expression haunted his features. Huddled behind him and standing protectively in front of their sister stood Binur and Borobur, both with daggers drawn protectively as Vidunn demanded to see what was going on.

 

“Ah, so this is where you’ve been sneaking off to,” Binur commented, noting the warg, “There’s no way you did this on your own.”

 

“I won’t let you kill Benur!” Boftur said furiously, “You’ll have to kill me first!”

 

“No one will kill anyone if you simply explain why you jumped up from the feast so fast, and why you’re protecting a warg of all things,” Borobur said cautiously, stepping out from behind kili, his knife still drawn. Benur growled, and Boftur kept his hands tangled in the warg’s hair.

 

“Put your sword and daggers away, you’re scaring him,” Boftur said sternly.

 

“He’s scaring me, now explain what’s going on, Boftur?” Kili said darkly, his eyes never leaving the white warg growling defensively before him. He did acknowledge that the warg seemed to be defending Boftur however.

 

“Don’t talk to my brother like that, prince, or I’ll have to fight you,” Binur cautioned equally as darkly, as he sheathed his dagger.

 

“It’s a warg, Binur, or are your elf eyes blind?” Kili spat, his normally kind demeanor evaporated as the presumed threat continued to growl, backing away from the weapon directed at him, “What else do you expect me to do?”

 

“We expect you to listen to what our brother has to say,” Borobur said sternly, shooting a glare at Kili, “Prince or not, he made a request and as we’re in his territory at the moment, and because that’s how court systems work, he deserves the right to defend himself.”

 

“We know what you and adad and the others faced on the journey,” Binur said, cautiously, “We know how dangerous orcs and wargs are, and we know who the white fur must remind you of, but give Boftur the chance to explain himself and why he’s defending a warg or he’ll never forgive you. And nor will we.”

 

“And don’t insult Binur again!” Vidunn called from behind her brother, “Or I shan’t play with you again.”

 

“While I thank you for defending my honor, sister, I don’t think that’s the main issue right now,” Binur said with a soft grin, before turning to Kili, “Please sheathe your sword, or at least lower it so that we can negotiate properly.”

 

With a reluctant sigh, Kili lowered the blade to the ground, and almost instantly the warg ceased growling. He sat on the floor beside Boftur, the dwarf’s hand gently stroking its white fur. Kili’s eyes never left the beast, still locked onto it as if expecting an attack.

 

“Please tell us how you came across a warg and managed to build it a house and everything,” Kili asked tiredly, angry with himself for losing his temper so quickly and upsetting his favorite children in all of Erebor. His heart had nearly stopped when he saw the flash of white fur and heard the growling. The last time he had seen such sights was nearly a year previously from the flat of his back as a mace careened toward his face in the middle of the biggest battle of his life. He had nearly died at the paws of such a creature, his brother on the ground not too far away, bleeding out onto the earth as their Uncle fought the warg’s master. He wanted to know How one so young survived, let alone became tamed by a dwarfling of all things. He didn’t think it was possible for anything so violent to have grown so large and not killed its master. The warg was eyeing him with a piercing gaze, as if staring into his soul, daring him to rise again. He ignored his urge to kill the beast and protect the children and turned to Boftur expectantly.

 

“Benur is my only friend,” the normally quiet, unassuming dwarf shrugged, curling into the white warg’s fur, “He’s very well mannered, and I taught him how to kill things only for food, and I taught him that hurting people is wrong. That was difficult as wargs like to chew things when they teethe, and they like to wrestle and play rough, but he won’t bite anydbody unless it’s in defense.”

 

“That doesn’t ease my worries, Boftur, nor does it really tell me how you found a _warg_ ,” Kili said, eyebrow raised.

 

“Shut up and let him speak,” Binur said annoyed, “Give him a proper chance to defend himself and his warg.”

 

“you hush too,” Vidunn scolded, “I wnna pet him. He looks soft.”

 

“Well, uh, I found Benur that day amad kicked us out of the house when Makrunn and Bolgur were being fussy and Bolgur flipped oatmeal onto Vidunn’s head. You all ran out to the fields to play, and Binur stole my sewing kit to force me to come out here and play. When I went to take it back from Binur’s bag while no one was looking, I heard a whining noise,” Boftur continued, shivering as Benur left his side to grab something from a corner. Kili lifted his sword cautiously, but Benur merely returned with a large blanket, covered in white hair. Binur cheekily trapped Kili’s sword under his foot and nodded, urging his brother to continue as Borobur appraised the warg thoughtfully.

 

“Well, the whining persisited and it sounded like something was hurt, and I don’t like leaving injured animals alone, even wild ones,” Boftur said, “It’s cruel and horrible and reflects badly on a city’s people. So I went to investigate. Underneath a bunch of rubble stacked like a house I found a ton of dried blood. It smelled like rotting meat in the area too, like something bad. I was really scared, but the whining noises were coming from inside the rubble cave, so I went further in.

 

“Inside I found Benur’s amad, spear shafts poking out of her sides and blood poured out all over the floor. She was dead and flies were buzzing around her corpse. Behind her, littered all over the floor were all the babies from the litter. They had all been brutally killed, not even the pelts were taken or anything. T-they were all left to rot in that cave with their little heads bashed in or throats slit… It was scary and sad. What did the little babies do to deserve that? I almost threw up. I cried too, still trying to locate what was making that noise,” Boftur said, looking into the distance and reliving the day in his head. Even Kili looked a little upset about this fact, though he tried to mask it under a stern face.

 

“So you found Benur in the cave?” Binur asked softly, already calling the Warg by name. Boftur nodded and continued.

 

“He was trying to wake his Amad. He was starving, and probably needed her milk. HE was also very scared because he had witnessed scary people kill everything he cared about right before his eyes,” boftur added softly, petting Benur’s head as the warg brushed against his hand for comfort, “And I couldn’t leave him. He was so tiny and alone and scared, and I should have left him… but I couldn’t. Amad wouldn’t have been proud of me, nor would Adad, because they’ve always told us to help people in need. It’s why Borobur and Binur are my brothers, and Makrunn and Bolgur are my younger sister and brother, and it’s why we got a mountain for our home. I thought, I thought if I raised him with love like Amad does with us, then maybe he would grow up to be a good thing, not a bad thing. Because surely not everything can be born one way or the other; dogs in a bad house will grow to be violent, and so will babies according to Amad, so why isn’t it the same with wargs?”

 

“Because they are melkor’s creations,” Kili answered, but Borobur stopped him with a glance.

 

“Let my brother finish, your highness,” He said sternly, in a tone that knew no ranks nor cared for the status of whoever it sassed. When Borobur wanted something done, and he used that tone, people often listened. He was wise and strong enough to have that respect from most adults. He rarely used it, but it was almost as effective as Binur’s cheerfulness and Boftur’s soft-toned, polite charm. Vidunn knew things were quite serious when Borobur dared use that voice on someone as important as a prince; people who didn’t listen to it usually ended up flat on their back if it was appropriate for Borobur to do so. Borobur had no patience for those who didn’t show respect to anybody. (he was brave enough to fight for that respect, and strong enough to earn it, from even the princes, though he was still working to be ever stronger, and ever more noble.)

 

“I apologize, Boftur,” Kili sighed, “I’m just incredibly uneasy. My family does not have a good history with wargs, especially the white ones.”

 

“I know, but I promise that he’s good. He listens when I talk to him, and he plays with me. I taught him how to keep others safe too,” Boftur said, “He saved me from a wild boar once, he killed it right before it speared me on a tusk. He’s good and can be good, if given the chance,” Boftur begged, looking at Kili tearfully.

 

The prince was silent, looking judgingly at the white warg, who stared right back at him equally as judging. It was a very tense standoff between the two, and Boftur held his breat worriedly as it continued on for  a very long moment. Kili however, sighed resignedly and stood up.

 

“My uncle is going to kill me,” He said, “But I believe you, Boftur. I just have one condition for you; You can keep the warg and I won’t tell anyone about its existence, but you must prove to me that “Benur” is trustworthy. So whenever you come down to take care of it I exect you to take me with you. Understand?”

 

“Yes kili,” Boftur replied, “But only if it doesn’t interfere with your prince duties.”

 

“Right then, if that’s settled,” Binur said, releasing Kili’s sword from under his foot, “We need to get you to Oìn, and then explain to everyone why you just up and fled from the feast.”

 

“What? But I’m fine?” Boftur said, confused.

 

“You’re shivering Bof,” Borobur stated, and Benur snorted in amusement.

 

“And he’s bleeding,” Vidunn pointed out, “and his ankle looks funny.”

 

“Your mother is going to kill me,” Kili despaired jokingly.

 

“So off to Oìn and then to Amad,” Binur grinned, as he scratched Benur behind the ears and hoisted Boftur onto his back, “and not a word will be breathed about our resident warg.”

 

With that the group of children, and the young prince departed the small shack and entered the storm once again.

 


End file.
